


as a quiet song, in my lilac dawn

by Remedial



Category: Captain America - All Media Types, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Angst with a Happy Ending, Dreamsharing, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Other, POV Multiple, POV Third Person, Polyamory, Romantic Soulmates
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-29
Updated: 2020-07-29
Packaged: 2021-03-06 01:07:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 17,457
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25594765
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Remedial/pseuds/Remedial
Summary: It's as though the universe has a will of its own, some sort of plan, and all we can do is try to fit ourselves in it. Sometimes it works out.In which Bucky is searching for a home, Sam is looking for relief and Steve is lonely.(a Steve/Sam/Bucky Dream Soulmates AU)
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers/Sam Wilson
Comments: 9
Kudos: 37
Collections: Marvel Trumps Hate 2019





	as a quiet song, in my lilac dawn

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ZepysGirl](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ZepysGirl/gifts).



> This is my fill for Marvel Trumps Hate 2019, written for ZepysGirl (sorry for the delay!). Thank you, and I hope you like it!

**_Soulmate:_** /ˈsəʊlmeɪt/

 **noun:** **_a person ideally suited to another as a close friend or romantic partner. Soulmates, after meeting, share the ability to communicate through their dreams._**

* * *

He doesn’t get to dream in cryo. It’s just cold and then darkness and then waking up to new faces, new names, same expressions, same orders. It’s been almost a week since SHIELD fell, since he failed his mission, since he’s been...not free — no, not truly, maybe never — but able to be alone. Really alone. There’s nobody tracking his moves this time. No real obligation to report back to another base. 

The first time he dreams (the first time in over eighty years), it isn’t really as bad as he thought it would be. 

It’s a slightly suburban street, not unrecognisable — somewhere around the West side of Harlem — but not somewhere he remembers frequenting. Though, this doesn’t mean much all things with his memory considered. 

But, it does feel familiar. 

There’s good music somewhere, which he almost definitely doesn’t recognise as being more modern and all, but it’s still comforting. And there’s a sweet smell drifting though. And it’s not too sweet, just the nice normal sweet scent of  _ something _ in the air. And it’s not too loud, the music is little more than a whisper. And he can’t hear everything, just some things. Just some nice melodies. It’s peaceful.

It’s... _ warm _ . 

Of course,  _ he’s  _ not warm, but the breeze touches his skin like lukewarm feathers. It’s the time of day where the hour seems to bend and the sky seems to melt only warm tones, and the relaxation in his body doesn’t feel like  _ himself  _ but it feels right. It settles into his heart like interlocking puzzle pieces fitting where they were always meant to be. 

And somewhere within, he feels himself ask  _ home? _ And the answer is affirmative.

* * *

It's weird. Golden hour doesn't usually last this long. Today, though, it seems to stretch onwards forever. Sam is at home.  _ Home home.  _ Not Washington DC home, or even back out there in the— 

No, it's golden hour at the moment. None of those thoughts.

There's the scent of oranges from the tree in their backyard, bountiful every spring and summer. There's the sweet smell of burning sugar, his momma's caramel-vanilla cheesecake. And if he focuses, in the brief pauses between chirping birds and guiling winds, he can hear the upbeat rhythms of one of his sister’s funk albums.

It seems like he's been standing outside the house for the longest time, but also only a few seconds. Though, he guesses the two measurements of time aren't actually too different, after all. 

He’s only a few steps from the front door, but he doesn’t go to knock just yet. Mostly cos he’s just content here…he knows his home will always be there. 

The only thing is… the only thing is… he knows it’s warm right now. The air moves in gentle currents of slightly dry heat against his skin. The only thing is he feels cold. Not extremely. Just a chill down in his bones, despite the warmth on his skin. It’s a good thing he’s only a few steps from home, though, because he knows his momma will just whip him up one of her good old hot cocoas to thaw him through. 

_ Home.  _ Says his bones.  _ Home. _ And his heart agrees.

Samuel Thomas Wilson, better known by some as ‘the dude with wings on the news who teamed up with Captain America and The Black Widow last weekend’, best known as Sam, wakes up in neither his home in Washington DC, nor  _ home-home _ , nor back out there in his bunk in Afganistan. Instead, he wakes up in a by and large unfamiliar bedroom, next to the sleeping form of Steve Rogers — or Captain America — of all people, or…his soulmate. 

Not that anything happened, he’s still clothed in his soft flannel pyjamas, after all. 

This is besides the point. The point is that Sam wakes up in Steven Grant Rogers’ apartment condo in The Avengers Tower in New York, and is not actually in his childhood home back in Harlem. Because yesterday, Steve wanted to introduce him to the Avengers, or at least those Earthbound — apparently the god of thunder has other duties and other worlds to be on. But anyway, Captain America is his soulmate.

Sam looks carefully at his soulmate’s sleeping form. It’s less agitated than Sam would expect, almost too peaceful, too still. But then, that would explain the lack of movement and the odd chill about his own dream.

They haven’t really discussed the whole dream part of their being soulmates yet, to be honest, even though they met almost two weeks ago. But the whole fall-of-SHIELD business happened a little less than a week ago so a lot has happened since then; they’re allowed a little slack. 

Either way, he hopes some of the warmth from Sam’s dream leaked into his soulmate’s — even just a little bit. 

* * *

Steve is dreaming of the ice again.

At least tonight he can see the light of the sun on the surface of the ice. 

Dreams are a little different, now that Steve has a soulmate, he’s noticed. For one, he feels less immersed. Like, he can feel Sam’s presence peaking around the seams of the dream, comforting and familiar, even though he hasn’t quite plucked up the courage to knock yet. 

He wouldn’t want Sam to see this anyway. He wouldn’t want Sam to feel it.

The mind is a funny, fickle thing. And even though he knows it’s a dream, played over and over like a broken record, he still feels the dread punching through his throat like the first time. Still feels his ears pop and feels himself and the plane smack through the icy water and the cold hitting his bones, and the way his vision blurs out and his lungs are struggling to work.

Still, even though he can’t see a thing, he can feel a tether, a lifeline of warmth, just a hair’s breadth away. And he’s not going to reach out, not going to drag anyone else down with him, let alone his soulmate. But it’s there, and that’s enough. 

He’s beginning towards one of the houses, something  _ good _ beginning to blossom in his chest when he wakes up.

* * *

Waking up is weird. It’s difficult. It always has been — so far as he can remember — but especially now when there’s no one telling him what to think. Thinking awake, consciously is difficult. Not so much when he has to gather supplies and food and weapons, or when he has to move because he’s been sheltering in the same place for too long now. 

Thinking is difficult because he doesn’t know if he should call himself ‘soldat’, or ‘The Asset’, or ‘Bucky’, or ‘Sergeant Barnes’, or ‘James.’ 

Sometimes, he wishes someone would just tell him. And then, to stop himself from getting tempted because someone telling him what to be is a very real, very viable option, he convinces himself that maybe it doesn’t matter. 

Maybe it doesn’t matter who he is or isn’t, he’s just trying to survive after all. 

Right now, he doesn’t need to think of things like names, right now he needs to be thinking of where next to stay. 

He thinks back to the dream, the warmth on his skin and the smell of the breeze and the soft music. Something in him aches suddenly, something other than the usual chill of his bones. 

West Harlem… It doesn’t seem too bad of a place to camp out. Even just for a while.

* * *

**_It is commonly accepted that one will feel 'complete' once they have found their soulmate, as it is partially in the perceived definition that two souls are meant to unite._ **

****_\- Soulmates, Wikipedia (DOA: 04/06/2020)_ ** **

* * *

Sam’s not gonna lie, hanging out with the Avengers is actually kinda fun. They’ve just ordered pizza from a local place, and he’s gorging himself on one of the cheesiest pizza pies he can remember having. Steve is on his third one. 

They’re not even eating around a table, for god’s sake. Just sitting on the couches, three arranged into a square facing a TV which is playing some random quiz show, pizza boxes and pizza’s left haphazardly. Initially, Sam’s surprised because the couches look real pricey — simplistic designs but quality materials — but doesn’t complain. He reckons Tony Stark can afford to go through a couch a week. Anyway, he’s on the middle couch, squished in between Steve and Natasha, and Hawkeye who seems content with just perching on Natasha’s armest.

“So, Steve give you the old tour yet?” Tony Stark asks. He’s a little tipsy, though, Sam get’s the impression it’s not a rare thing. 

“Not yet, but tomorrow right?” Sam replies, looking towards his soulmate.

Steve blushes. “Oh, sure! I didn’t even think. Of course you’d want to see! I mean, a lot of the floors are pretty similar, I don’t think I’ve even been on them all, but for sure!”

“Ah,” Tony Stark pipes up, reminding Sam of his presence. He holds his hands up, “I get it, I get it. You two have been  _ busy _ ,” he says, waggling his eyebrows. 

“Tony,” Steve sighs.

“Okay,  _ okay… _ Captain  _ Boring _ .”

They talk for some more, they’re all pretty chill even though they’re superheroes and (former) secret agents. By the end of it, they’ve played one round of truth or dare — a perfectly self-respecting adult game — and four or five rounds of Cards Against Humanity, with lots of explaining-things-for-Steve between each turn, and Sam has played a few matches of phone arcade ice-hockey with Clint Barton. 

Now, though, it’s getting to the time of night where most channels are either playing the news on repeat or porn. Natasha is dozing quietly resting against Sam’s shoulder which he is quietly honoured by, when Steve slips his hand into his. 

“Shall we go to bed?” he murmurs, nudging him slightly. Even with his glorified super soldier state, he’s a little drowsy. 

Sam nods. He gently calls Natasha awake before extracting himself and following Steve out the room and into the elevator up. 

The ride up is short, and Steve doesn’t say anything, but he doesn’t have to. He meets Sam’s eyes, tired and content and warm, hand still held, and offers up a smile.

* * *

Tonight, he dreams of the man on the bridge, the one that was supposed to be his mission. It’s not about any time he’s seen him, though, which he supposes fair, because who’s to say what the nature of dreams are, nor in any of the brief flashing glimpses of a world where he truly was “Bucky” and never “Soldat.”

In his dream, Steve is holding his hand and dragging him through the streets of today’s New York, laughing all the while. The sound of it makes him feel oddly relieved. It doesn’t really feel like they’re running towards or from anything, really, just that they’re enjoying the process of it. Which is strange because he’s never really loved running, even now when he can outrun cars. It’s why he was always the sniper and has always preferred it, at least so far as he can remember. 

Once again, the time of day is just before dark, but the sky changes quicker this time, almost as though between every single blink the blues and oranges frow hues darker. He gets the feeling it’s never been his favourite hour — he’s always been one to prefer the pitch-black depths of night, or at least that’s what it feels like — but it’s comforting here, for some reason. Not so much a familiar comfort, but more like discovering a new type of comfort food, which he’s been doing a lot of lately, anyway. More comfortable, even.

More comfortable than when he repeats the names “James” and “Bucky” and “Sergeant Barnes” to himself, at least.

That’s all the dream is about, anyway. Just running, holding hands with Steve Rogers, somewhere. 

When he wakes up, the rich sapphire and amber tones melt away to dusty beige walls and with mould on ceilings and the sun rising under foggy skies. 

The familiar ache in his chest — cold, like something hollowing him out — settles back in. It feels like it’s been there all along, even if the realisation of it has only come since the fall of SHIELD, since his last mission. 

And dreaming? Well, it’s the only thing which seems to staunch the sensation, if only a little.

* * *

Steve wakes, an odd feeling settled in his stomach. He’d say it’s hunger, except Steve knows hunger well. 

“Morning,” says Sam, turning over on his side to face him. “How’d you sleep?” 

He feels himself smiling. Life is good, he reminds himself. He’s waking up in bed with his soulmate in a tower built by a billionaire. “I didn’t think you’d have to ask.”

Sam shrugs, even though they’re both still lying on their sides. “I like to ask, still.”

"It was fine, then. Don't think I dreamt. I'm rested enough. How about you?"

"It was nice," his soulmate hums, propping himself up on an elbow. "Peaceful."

"That's good."

It's the time of morning where the birds seem their loudest. And the birds on this side of New York don't sing or even twitter. Nope, they full-on screech. Scraping high pitched sounds, echoing back and forth through the city.

There are two glasses of water beside the bed, put there yesterday night before sleeping. He watches Sam take slow sips of his before turning back to him. 

"So," Sam begins, a light but cautious smile on his face. "We should probably talk about our dream sharing, huh, soulmate?"

The way the word  _ soulmate _ sounds on Sam's tongue makes him want to dance in the silliest way possible, and even more so because he's saying it to  _ Steve _ .

Sam is still looking at him expectantly, waiting for him to reply. 

Right, dreams.

Times are different now, for everything. When Steve was in school, dreams weren't discussed at all. Soulmates are private things, the dreams between them especially so. There were discussions of them between friends but they were mostly gossip and imaginative wondering, and everything soulmate related was the duty of the family to teach. Steve's Ma always told to always knock before joining dreams with whoever the lucky dame would be.

Course, Sam isn't a dame, but the point still stands.

Nowadays, Sam explains, there are lessons taught in school. Sometimes soulmates don't always work out, and the government can give out devices to block out soulmates. 

"Is that what," Steve swallows, struggling not to frown, "Is that what you want, Sam?"

"Oh, God no! Steve of course not!" Sam says, and Steve lets out a quick breath. "I just want you to have all the info. New age, and all."

"Right," he smiles, feeling his face warm. "Good, that's good."

Anyway, it's important they set certain boundaries, things they are and aren't comfortable with, things like that. It all makes a lot of sense, really.

"No nightmares," Sam tells him. "If I'm having a nightmare, don't come in. Just — just, wake me up or something, yeah?"

"Of course. And, same here, Sam."

They get up, Sam gets changed into light grey sweatpants and Steve's shirt, and Steve makes them both coffee and receives a pretty little kiss for his efforts.

On today's agenda, Sam's getting the full tour of the Tower. Tony tags along for the tour, apparently so he can point out all the best make out spots, although Steve suspects it's more of a trusting who sees what kind of thing.

Whatever the reason, for once, Steve is glad for Tony's incessant monologues. It distracts from the nerves making him fidget, making him stutter.

The tour concludes back in the large common room where it started. Tony ditches them to get back to his workshop, so it's just them and Natasha who they've found watching TV with a mug of hot chocolate, not really paying them any mind. At least, no more than she pays everything any mind. 

Sam turns to him, "Something on your mind?"

He winced. "That obvious, huh?"

His soulmate shrugs. "I think taking down a corrupt government secretly Nazi organisation with you makes me qualified enough to know if somethings bothering you. Besides the obvious, of course."

Steve nods, the blush rising from his neck to his face. 

They're at the little kitchen area of the common room, beside the breakfast bar, so Sam jumps up onto the counter and makes a grab to hold Steve's hand. Instantly something in Steve's chest unknots and he breathes, something so comforting about touching his soulmate.

"Nothing I should be worried about, right?"

"No, I— I don't think so."

Steve's glad the common room is by and large empty, because he asks Sam if he wants to join the Avengers and Sam says no.

* * *

Home. He wants home. Bucky — he's going by that name now — hasn't felt home since… since maybe back before the war. That's as much as he can remember, anyway. But home, as he's seduced through various dreams, might be found about two hundred miles from here. 

He's got nowhere else to go, anyway, and maybe he can take out some HYDRA bases along the way, help out Steve and whoever he works with now a little. It's where he'll maybe feel warmer, feel safer, somewhere to come back to instead of just wandering detached. 

It's hard to organise his thoughts, nowadays, and he needs to stay alert, so if nothing else it gives him a mission. Something to focus on.

* * *

**_“An invisible red thread connects those destined to meet, regardless of time, place, or circumstances. The thread may stretch or tangle, but never break.”_ **

**_– Ancient Chinese Proverb_ **

* * *

Even though Sam is not becoming an Avenger — and Steve gets it, really he does, after all Sam has his job at the VA and people he cares about, and Avenging is… a lot — he still keeps his promise in helping him find Bucky. Of course he does, because that's who he is.

They've arrived at a small town, a couple of miles off Philadelphia. Natasha's given them some intel that someone matching Bucky's description was spotted here. It makes sense, supposedly there's a small HYDRA base here, along with some bigger ones in Philly. They've been at it for almost three months now, and it's not too long, of course, but already the fear of a trail gone cold is seeping into his bones.

They're in disguise, not brilliant disguises he must admit, but it's better than nothing. Even though civilians are unlikely to recognise Samuel Wilson, they can't take it for granted that HYDRA haven't put him on some sort of list. Steve's got thick square glasses on and a knit beanie, despite the heat, and oversized clothes which don't do much for his physique, and he's let his beard grow out a little.

"You should keep the beard," Sam tells him, voice light and full of laughter.

"Really?" he asks, reaching up to touch it a little self consciously. 

Sam shrugs. "Only sometimes."

* * *

It only takes a couple of days to reach Harlem, even taking all the long roads with less surveillance, and taking out the few HYDRA bases he remembers on the way. Though, these days it doesn't take long to get anywhere. 

It feels almost a little anticlimactic. Not the arrival, but the journey. As though it should have taken him a little longer than a few days to get here. 

When he arrives it's kind of overcast and early afternoon, and though his dreams of this place aren't always warmly hued with gold and setting summer suns, they usually are. So it's different. Chillier. Anticlimactic. 

But somehow, still, a sense of nostalgia washes over him lightly, like being covered in a new blanket but familiar scent. It's… it's nice.

* * *

Their motel in Philly is cosy but relatively well kept even though the mattress is clearly well past its prime. Being military men, neither he nor Steve toss around much when they sleep but the springs of the mattress seem broken, at least, on his side of the bed. 

Steve is snoring gently though, apparently capable of sound sleep.

A quick check of his phone shows it's 3AM and they have a big day tomorrow (or, at least, he hopes they do). Resigned, Sam throws on a hoodie and picks up his pillow and trudged over to the other side of the room, settling into the slightly worn, leather armchair by the window. It's not great, he can admit, but at least his back is getting  _ some  _ support.

It's not a terribly large armchair, but Sam still manages to curl up onto it anyway, good up, head resting on his pillow, hands tucked into sleeves, and dozens off. A little sleep is better than nothing.

It's cold. Everything is cold. And he is scared and he doesn't know why he's so scared. And so cold. Why is everything  _ so  _ cold? 

He can't really see much beyond the bright white lamps shining directly in his eyes, but he came hear _ so much. _

"—Doktor, er ist wach."  _ Doctor, he's awake. _

"Gut. Können wir gleich loslegen."  _ Good _ .  _ Now we may start _ .

(This is weird, Sam doesn't speak German.)

Cold metal brackets grip his arms and legs and torso, clamping him down. Even his head does not have the freedom to move. He can hear his breath getting harder and faster and his lungs constricting and his heart beating as though a speaker emitting deep pulses. And somehow, through all this, the situation feels so, so very familiar. 

There's no fight, even though there is panic. And there's no reason he can recollect, even though there most certainly is fear.

The current feels less like something flowing through him and more like something hitting him, smacking through his flesh and bones from both sides, continuously. As though his skin, now too rubbery, now too thin, has become too small for the meat over his bones and is about to burst. And his head,  _ oh his head — _

"Sam, get up," says Steve, waking up with a gentle shake. He's already dressed.

* * *

The house in question is on one of the streets that gets slightly less trouble. Quiet, painted a warm cream colour, though there are a few swatches of light orange and bright white and light blue painted on one of the corners, which wasn't in the dream.

There are 3 residents in the house. Two females, one child. A family unit then: mother, child and grandmother. Very quaint. Very ordinary. 

It's probably for the best, in any case. 

Wilson, the family name of the house, is a fairly common name for African-Americans, so Bucky doesn't think too much of it. 

He's been shadowing the house for a little over a week now. Just hiding out nearby. Thrice, he's tailed the family car, though they've led only to stores and office work buildings and elementary schools. 

It's clearly a very close knit community, so Bucky doesn't like to stay out for too long, hiding out on an unused rooftop of a run down community centre most of the time. 

If he's being honest, he isn't quite sure what he's doing. He tells himself the mission is to survey, and tries to focus on it. But the tugging ache in his chest is still there, almost becoming more powerful with proximity. 

_ Home _ , is the thing he doesn't allow himself to think.  _ Home,  _ the thing which is urging him to abandon his rational sense and knock on the door and ask to come in. 

Bucky is cold. He always is, nowadays, but he's so  _ close _ to feeling warmth.

* * *

Arriving back to New York empty handed always has the same feeling. At least, it does for Steve. 

It's night by the time they get back, late enough that the only person left in the common area is Clint who is snacking on leftover pizza. They don't really make conversation with him, eager to get back to Steve's private quarters and sleep for the next week or so. 

Sam is heading back to DC tomorrow, though. And Steve gets it, he's got a duty there just as Steve has a duty here. Still, he feels an anticipatory ache in the soul bond, even though Sam has his arms wrapped around his waist for now. 

Getting ready for bed is a quiet affair. It feels wrong to have the main lights on so only a standing lamp is lit. The dim, warm light and the shadows it casts somehow makes the place seem less empty. There are bags dropped on the floor and boots kicked off and coats hung on the back of the door. 

As usual, Sam goes to get changed first, dropping a tired kiss to Steve's jaw and shuffling himself towards the bedroom. Steve fills up two glasses of water and places one at either side of the bed. Sam is brushing his teeth already and Steve takes the time to come up and hug him from behind before starting with his own teeth. 

It's this sleepy, domestic routine they do which makes Sam leaving and Steve staying worth it. They have time, he thinks, so they can afford to take it.

He's just putting on his sleep shirt while Sam is reading idly on the bed when Sam's phone goes off. It's eleven thirty PM, which isn't insanely late but late enough to be of notice. 

Sam meets his eyes for a brief two seconds first before picking up.

"Hello?" he says, concern colouring his voice. "Sarah, you there?"

Sarah is Sam's older sister who has a young daughter named Naya and so usually gets to sleep at around ten thirty which was an hour ago.

" —  _ what?  _ Sarah, what d'you mean in hospital?"

There are several hospitals dotted around New York, the closest to Sam's family's house being in Lenox Avenue in Harlem. The Tower is a decent drive away from there, however.

"Yeah, I'm in New York. Steve and I just got back."

Sam glances towards Steve quickly before climbing out of bed to take the call out on Steve's balcony. It's understandable, the illusion of privacy even though Sam knows full well of his soulmate's hearing abilities. After all, even if they're soulmates, they've known each other for less than three months. 

" — Okay, good. Look I can come over now if you want — "

Steve tries not to let his heart sink. After all, one more night was all he'd thought to ask for. 

"Okay, right. I'll call you when I get there."

The door slides open again and Sam slips in, closing the door behind him slowly. When he turns around, Steve has to force himself not to give in to the instinct of averting his gaze, and instead takes a step towards his soulmate. 

Sam lets out a tightly controlled breath and makes a slight grimace. "My mom's in hospital. Sarah's there with her now but she needs me at the house to look after Naya." 

It feels as though Steve should hold Sam in his arms or something, or at least hold his hand, let his soulmate help to hold him together. But falling apart is the last thing Sam needs to do right now. 

Still, he says, "Do you want me to come with you?" desperately hoping against all odds. 

"No, just… just stay here. You need to rest."

In any case, it's easier for soldiers like Sam and he to think about the job ahead, the task to focus on, rather than things out of their control. Some feelings can be dealt with later whereas some actions need to happen in the present. 

Steve nods, understanding (because they're soulmates). "Let me call you a cab?"

* * *

**_In Hindu culture, there's an idea that you have a karmic connection with certain souls. In the Gujarati language, it's called lehnu: the link with another soul that causes you to keep crossing paths, positively impacting each other. It describes someone who helps you lead a life that serves a higher purpose._ **

* * *

Even though it's windy, it's a warm night. Sam always thought that things like this were supposed to be accompanied by rain or storm, perhaps both. But no, it's a calm night and the air is warm and dry but not enough to make him think that there will be a storm soon. Just mild.

He enters the house quietly, placing his shoes neatly on the rack and hanging his jacket like his mom taught him to. Even though he's only in the hall the house feels much too empty. 

Little Naya sleeps in what used to be Sam's room, redecorated of course, so he heads up there to check on her first. She's tucked in bed and asleep, of course, so he heads back down to the living room to set up camp on the sofa before calling Sarah back. 

His mom is stable now, apparently, though still asleep. Sarah says she'll come bring him and Naya back to the hospital at ten tomorrow.

Next he sends a quick text off to Mary back at the VA in DC.  _ Family emergency _ , he says.  _ Tell the guys I'm sorry and to call if they need me. _ She should probably get a raise for all the shit she has to put up with, Sam being off all the time now, not that the former is up to him.

He's got a text from Steve, too.  **Let me know if you get there safe?**

_ I'm home safe,  _ he replies.  _ Thanks steve. Gonna sleep now. Heading to the hospital in the morning. _

The response is immediate.  **I can be there if you need me.**

_ I've got it, but thank you. _

**Okay, goodnight ❤❤ knock if you need me?**

_ I will. Night ❤ _

Sam doesn't think he will knock, but he does. And even though it's far from the first time they've connected in their dreams, or even the first intentional time, it still surprises him how quick Steve is to let him in and respond. 

"Hey," Sam begins, taking a slow pace forward.

But Steve shakes his head and takes the last few steps for him. "Come here," he says.

* * *

Something's different in the Wilson house today. It’s quieter than usual. There are still people in the house, but there’s no Darlene Wilson already up and about by seven thirty making breakfast for her daughter and her granddaughter, or little Naya Wilson climbing into her mother’s bed before she leaves for work. Instead, there is a familiar looking man lying face down on the couch and at quarter-to-nine he gets up to pop on the kettle. 

The man is, of course, Samuel Thomas Wilson who Bucky recognises from the countless photos framed around the house. And who Bucky now recognises to be the man from the bridge, and DC, the flying one. 

Sam Wilson is knocking on Naya’s door, and Naya is shouting “Uncle Sammy!” and jumping to get picked up and swung around and Sam is quietly explaining to her (and Bucky, too) that Granny is in the hospital, and Bucky is quick to make himself scarce.

The library in Sam Wilson's neighbourhood is tired and underfunded, as a lot of community buildings in this area are. So there are no security cameras, and if the librarians are confused as to why an unfamiliar white man is walking into their library, they don't say anything.

Bucky isn't here to draw attention to himself, after all. He knows that a light shirt and an open flannel shirt to cover his arm, and light washed jeans will make him look more open and less threatening. He has his hair tied up, and an odd feeling smile on his face. Unassuming and, hopefully, unremarkable. 

There’s a whole shelf and a half dedicated to articles and journals and books on soulmates, which is pretty good for a library of this size, really.

Not that there’s a lot Bucky needs to know. Because it’s pretty obvious, really. 

This is Sam Wilson’s neighbourhood. And the home he dreamed about was Sam Wilson’s home. And it takes a particularly cruel and bastardly universe to make this the case, that Sam Wilson is his soulmate, after having waited over seventy years. It’s what the poets would call funny.

To be fair, the universe has already proven its nature to Bucky many times over.

* * *

Since Sam is (a) at home because his mother is in hospital and (b) he is not an Avenger, Nat is on the mission with him. 

It's not too complicated — less of an "Avengers level" mission than a "Steve Owens Nat a Favour" mission. They're at the Ukrainian border, and all Steve needs to know is that he's to provide back up and look out for any signs of trouble. "Trust me, the less you know the better," Nat says, as she says with most of these type of things. 

They've taken a quinjet, one of those ones with the shielding and can handily turn invisible. It saves them the trouble of having to find hotels and staying under the radar. Still, because neither of them are inclined to be sitting ducks, even if they are invisible, Nat tells him to take the first sleep because she wants to run by some schematics on her own anyway. 

This works for Steve because the first thing he does is knock for Sam.

Dream communication is a little strange. A little hard to explain. When you're younger, before meeting your soulmate, they happen maybe once a year or more frequently until you eventually meet them. Nothing concrete, no real talking, just dreams of another life which feel real and different. 

Now that Steve has met his soulmate, though, it's less like two dreams connecting and somehow trying to fit in with each other and more two halves of one dream, constantly aware of the presence of the other. So connecting is like walking from one side of a room to the other or going to meet in the middle instead if walking round the edges. But then again, it's different for everyone.

They're in some garden Steve can't quite place but is mostly familiar, the lighting soft if a little overcast. He finds Sam sitting on one of the benches, sort or looking out.

"Hey," he calls softly, and Sam looks at him. 

"Hey," Sam calls out, a gentle smile slipping onto his face. "I've been here a while, what did you keep me waiting for?"

Steve frowns. "I only just got to sleep? What do you mean?"

"I— " and Sam's eyes flit to another corner of the garden. "I thought I heard something before but it doesn't matter."

"Dreams are weird?" Steve offers.

"Dreams are weird," confirms Sam, cracking a grin. 

He goes to sit beside Sam on the bench, locking his fingers with his. Holding hands in dreams is not the same as holding hands in person, but it still feels intimate, somehow. Maybe more so. 

"How are things?" he asks carefully, giving Sam's hand a small squeeze. 

Sam shrugs. "Naya's happy to see her Uncle Sammy; I don't think she really understands what's going on… probably for the best." He swallows before leaning his head on Steve's shoulder. Despite being apart, it's nice. This is nice. "Distract me?" he asks quietly. "How's Natasha? How's the mission?"

"She's good," Steve replies, humming. "Hasn't told me too much about it, if I'm being honest. But I trust her."

"She'll tell you when she's ready," Sam nods. "Don't worry.

They kind if just sit like that the rest of the time. There's a cool breeze every so often, and sometimes the grey sky clears a little before darkening again. It's peaceful. 

* * *

**_“According to Greek mythology, humans were originally created with four arms, four legs and a head with two faces. Fearing their power, Zeus split them into two separate parts, condemning them to spend their lives in search of their other halves.”_ **

_**— Plato** _

* * *

Sam stays at the hospital alone, aside from his mother in the hospital bed. Sarah left a few hours ago with Naya. Their Momma would understand. Even in these situations, being a mother comes first, after all. In any case, she'll be back soon; she's only dropping Naya off to one of her nursery friends. 

The doctor says she’ll be waking up soon — maybe during the night, maybe during the morning — and they both want to be here when she does. It’s only a matter of time, they say. But Sam’s Ma had a stroke just last year, so neither of them are willing to risk it. 

There’s not really anything to do, other than wait. If he hadn’t just woken up he’d take a nap, or something. But he’s not tired — restless more like. He’s been playing Tetris on his phone for what seems like an hour, at least. Sam’s Momma is still and peaceful, her resting face is an almost smile. One of Naya’s favorite stuffies is tucked under the covers alongside her, a soft pink elephant with floppy ears and a little embroidered butterfly stitched into its chest. His Momma gave that to Naya for her third birthday last year, he helped pick it out. 

It seems wrong that Darlene Wilson should be in a hospital bed, not really sleeping but not- _ not  _ sleeping, nothing visibly wrong with her besides the tubes and various machines around her. 

There’s a strange ache in his chest, even though he just spoke to Steve, even though he was with Steve all of last week up until yesterday. The ache doesn’t feel Steve-shaped, anyway. Not even Mom shaped, because his Momma is right there in front of him, and Sam knows she’s going to be okay — she always is. 

Sam isn’t sure what it is. 

Sarah arrives at the hospital with a container of Mrs Jackson from next door’s homemade mac and cheese for dinner. Maybe the smell of it will wake her up, Sarah jokes.

“Maybe,” he says.

Five hours later, Darlene Wilson wakes up — only for a few minutes, but still. 

The ache remains, though.

* * *

The Wilson house has been empty for over two days, aside from Sarah or Sam popping in and out the house to collect things. Perhaps they’re skipping town, he thinks. It’s weird, he’s never really met any of them, not even Sam (at least not amicably) and yet he still watches the house til late at night, even as it’s empty; still listens out of the sounds of cheery humming and fond fussing; still worries over the fact that he hasn’t seen Darlene Wilson, the eldest of the family, even once. 

On the third day, he’s almost tempted to just wait at the doorstep and demand answers as to what is going on. But at around three in the afternoon, the Wilson family car rolls up onto their drive and two familiar figures climb out the car, and then a third. Sam and Sarah Wilson both scurry to their mother’s side, hovering their hands anxiously even though Darlene Wilson has a cane now — a new development — and is batting their hands away irritably. 

“I’m not about t’drop dead, y’know,” she scowls, pointedly avoiding their hands. 

“Could’ve fooled me,” Sam replies, still hovering. 

Darlene sniffs. “Rude boy.”

“C'mon, Momma,” Sarah says placatingly, the mediator of sorts today, he supposes. “Sammy’s just worrying and so am I. You’ve gotta take it easy.”

“I am taking it easy!” Darlene huffs, rolling her eyes. “Don’t you and Sam have work today? Where’s my granddaughter?”

“Naya’s at her friend Hannah’s house. From the nursery,” replies Sarah patiently. 

The door shuts behind him and Bucky releases a breath he hadn’t realised he’d been holding. So… the hospital. Something happened to the eldest Wilson and she had to go to hospital and now she has to take it easy. But she’s okay now. Good.

Now that Bucky is alone, still sitting up in his place to watch the house, now that he knows they are okay, it feels like he should leave. Leave the family to their space, let them settle in and all. He doesn’t though.

Now that Sam is here, and everything is okay, and they’re in the place which feels like  _ home _ , he can’t quite look away. Because Bucky’s soulmate is only a few dozen yards away. And everything is okay. He can see him through the window, bickering with his mother, exchanging fond looks with his sister.

An hour later, Sarah Wilson leaves to bring her daughter back home and the scene just gets happier. Little Naya is busy playing with her Grandmother’s new cane, and telling her all about the adventures of her sleepover at Hanna’s; Sam and Sarah are busy making dinner, some fish and roasted vegetables and some rice, simple but healthy; in the living room, Grandma Wilson, tired, has convinced Naya that they should put on a film, perhaps one of her princess cartoons. 

The familiar running melodies of one of Sarah’s old funk albums begins to play, the one Bucky recognises from the dreams, and even though oranges aren’t in season the music makes it seem as though they are ripening under his nose. The ache in his chest is a good one. 

It’s nine o’ clock when Bucky spies Sam Wilson exiting the house. Probably going back to wherever he stays, Bucky thinks disappointedly. But Sam doesn’t call for a cab, or step into the Wilson car, or even leave the premises of the Wilson property. Instead, he leans back against the pillar of the house’s porch, arms crossed, and gazes around the neighbourhood. 

And then his gaze settles directly in front of Bucky’s spot. Or, not in front of, but on. 

Bucky isn’t so far away, but he’s far enough and concealed enough that one wouldn’t spot him if they weren’t looking. Sam raises a single brow, almost challengingly, and Bucky feels frozen in what to do.

Perhaps it is because they are soulmates, perhaps it is because Sam is a soldier, perhaps it is because Sam is just a uniquely intuitive sort of person. 

A few moments later, neither of them making another move, Sam goes back inside, shutting the door behind him with only a single glance behind him. He wonders what Sam is thinking.

* * *

Sam brings a handgun and a knife with him. If there’s one thing Natasha’s taught him; don’t just pick one to bring to the fight. He doesn’t have his wings or any fancy bulletproof armour on him — or, god forbid, a shield — but he does have a sturdy leather jacket and his phone which he sticks into his breast pocket, and a tin pencil case, so it’s better than nothing. 

It’s eleven-thirty, which isn’t too late, really, but since little Naya was born everyone’s bedtime has adjusted. Ma’s already in bed, s’posed to take it easy and all that, and even Sarah has fallen asleep in front of the TV playing Fresh Prince reruns over and over. 

Outside is dark, a little dewy but the cool kind, not the humid kind. He locks the door behind him, checks all the windows and curtains are closed also, and makes a note to himself that maybe he should convince his folks to get another lock. 

(It’s been a while since he was this paranoid.)

It’s not paranoia, he tells himself. They’re being watched. He  _ knows _ it. He saw movement and yeah, sure, the building is one of those tall ones a couple blocks away and maybe it was nothing or maybe it was someone good enough to make him distrust his intuition. Besides, he’s just checking. And now, science-y Nazi’s being uncovered and all that — now he actually has reason to be paranoid. 

He’s about five minutes away, shivering, and maybe it wasn’t the best idea to go walking alone in dark clothes in Harlem as a black man, when he hears his name being called from behind him.

“Sam,” says the guy, face half covered in shadows, hands raised because Sam has a gun pointed at him. 

“What do you want? Why’re you watching us?”

* * *

Bucky is standing there with his arms raised and Sam Wilson is pointing a gun at him and his soulmate is right in front of him. 

“It’s okay,” he tries, lowering his arms.

Sam flinches, though. “I mean it, man. I’ll shoot.”

“It’s me,” he says, and chances a step forward under the streetlights. 

“Barnes?” The gun drops, not fully, but enough. "Fuck," Sam whispers. "Fuck. I should call Steve—"

"Don't!" he interrupts, panicking, because Steve's name carries weight and a sort of trepidation with it. "Please don't call Steve."

He hates himself for saying it. For begging, almost. For being too much of a coward to face Steve Rogers again. For asking his soulmate not to call Steve.

But he can't see Steve. 

"Okay," says Sam slowly. "Okay." He lowers his gun, fully this time, before pocketing it. "Since you're you, I'm guessing this wouldn't do much anyway, and if you wanted me dead you'd have done it already."

Right. Stunning first conversation with his soulmate,  _ if you wanted me dead you would have done it already. _

“Can I, uh,” he stutters before clearing his throat. “I was wondering...How is your...I was only— You can call me Bucky.”

* * *

Sam raises his brow at him, like he did only several hours ago. “Right,” he says. “Okay then, Bucky.”

Against all common sense, Sam agrees to follow Bucky — because they're on nickname basis with each other now, apparently — back to his humble abode. Which it is, actually, incredibly humble. Literally just a mattress, a sleeping bag and a duffel on the fifth floor of a crumbling, abandoned parking lot. 

There's a direct view of his house from here too. Convenient. 

Still, Bucky is rubbing the back of his neck and fidgeting nervously and keeps sneaking looks at him as though he's a teenager on a first date and not sworn… frenemies? Honestly, Sam isn't too sure at this point but it's freaking Sam out.

"It's not much, I know," Bucky begins, voice a little rough.

"Yeah," Sam agrees. "It isn't anything, actually."

Bucky winces a little but shrugs. 

"So, you gonna tell me what you were doing watching my family, or what?" He levels him with a hard stare.

"You… you mean you don't know?"

Of all the answers Bucky could have given, and it could have been anything, really, somehow this is the most startling. 

What the hell is  _ that _ supposed to mean? 

"Am I," he clears his throat. "Am I, somehow,  _ supposed _ to know why my family are being watched by the  _ Winter Soldier _ —"

"Don't call me that," Barnes interrupts with a flinch. "Please."

The way he says it makes Sam feel like the biggest asshole in the world, somehow. Nevermind that Bucky is the one who's been watching his goddamned house and tried to kill him once before. 

"Sorry," he says, and sighs and rubs his face with one hand. "Look, just… why—"

"It doesn't matter," Barnes says dully, shrugging again. 

Sam begs to differ but despite being on home turf, or perhaps because of it, he knows he's almost hilariously outgunned and he doesn't want to start anything that could end in a fight. 

"Okay… then, how long have you been watching us."

Bucky looks away, shifting his weight back and forth a little.

"'Bout two months, something like that. But— it was only the house."

"You've been watching my house for  _ two months _ ?"

It almost makes Sam want to laugh. Here he is, coming back home after traipsing around with Steve looking for Barnes, and  _ lo and behold  _ here Barnes is, sitting pretty, right at his doorstep. 

Almost.

"I was just," begins Bucky, and it sounds like a lie already, somehow. "I was just makin' sure nobody was gonna go after your family after… y'know."

"After you and a couple of Nazis tried to kill me and my soulmate. Got it. Right."

“ _ Soulmate _ ?” 

“Right,” Sam repeats, remembering. “Forgot not everybody knows. Figured you might with you watching us and what-not,” he adds, muttering. “Steve is my soulmate — surprise.”

Bucky doesn’t seem to want him to linger after that, and Sam is still so shocked that he doesn’t even tell Bucky to  _ stop watching my family, go somewhere else, leave us alone _ , or anything like that. And he could always turn back and do it, now that he knows where Barnes is staying, but the thing is… the thing is he doesn’t want to. Despite all the obvious reasons he should. 

Besides, he reasons to himself. Even if he  _ did _ tell Barnes to leave, it’s not likely that he’d listen to whatever Sam would say anyway. And he it’s not like he has anywhere else to stay. Not like he’s hurt Sam’s family thus far, not even after two months.

And, suddenly, Sam wants very much to invite him back. 

Sam pushes the thought back quickly. After all, it’s one thing to not tell Steve, his soulmate, where his best friend is and quite another to house him.

He turns back, just once more, just for a second, before continuing home. He has a family to care for, after all.

* * *

**_“O humankind, have consciousness of your Loving-Sustainer, who created you from a single nafs (soul) and created from it her zawj (mate) and dispersed from both many men and women. And have God Consciousness, through whom you ask one another, and the wombs. Indeed, God is ever, over you, an Observer.”_ **

**_– The Quran, Meaning of al-Nisaa, The Women [4:1]._ **

* * *

Sam is late tonight. Which is understandable, of course. His mom was supposed to come home today. Figures that maybe he’ll take his time. Probably. It’s not like he’s obligated, or anything. 

They aren’t in the garden today. Steve isn’t sure where they are. It feels like a place, always does, but it doesn’t really look like anything. It’s a little chilly, though. 

“Hey,” says Sam, reaching for him. “Sorry I’m late. Some things came up.”

“Is it your mom? Is everything okay?” he asks quickly. 

“Yeah mom’s fine. Well, she’s recovering. She’s gonna be fine, though,” he replies, just as quick.

“Good. I’m glad.”

He thought the space would get a little warmer when Sam arrived. It hasn’t, it’s grown a little bigger, though. 

“How was the mission with Nat?” he asks, after a second. “Did you… did she find what she was looking for?”

“I’m not sure she found everything,” Steve replies, because he isn’t. “It wasn’t completely fruitless though.”

“I’m glad you’re safe,” Sam says. “I miss you.”

“I miss you too,” he replies instantly. He always does.

* * *

Sam’s mom has been home three days and Sam has accompanied his mother on four short walks around the neighbourhood, looking over his shoulder so much that Darlene Wilson has said she may just sneak out  _ like a goddamned teenager  _ next time.

“I feel like an inmate on my own street,” she complains at breakfast every morning. 

“Don’t be silly, Grandma,” Naya Wilson laughs over her plate of blueberry pancakes and orange juice. “Mom, Grandma’s being silly.”

“Yes, she is,” Sarah agrees good-humouredly.

It’s a sweet sight, and between all of these SHIELD-Avengers shenanigans and his work in DC… he missed this.    


Anyway, it’s been three days since Darlene Wilson was discharged from the hospital. It takes three days before Sam caves and approaches Bucky’s place — for lack of a better word. Bucky isn’t there, to Sam’s relief and disappointment, but his stuff is, which is just as well, really. 

He doesn’t really stay long. Paranoid, perhaps. The thought of being caught here without permission feels a little too ironic, too close for comfort. Still, the thought of being here and then not telling Barnes about it feels even more invasive.

So he doesn’t do much. Just writes his number on the back of an old, crumpled receipt. Even though Bucky could almost certainly find his number by his own means. And he isn’t even sure if Bucky has a phone. 

_ Barnes, _ he writes at the bottom of the receipt before scoring it out and writing  _ Bucky  _ instead.  _ Stop by the house, if you want. No later than eight. My Niece has a bedtime. _

* * *

Sam arrives early today to make up for last night. If he didn’t already feel bad about keeping a secret from Steve and then inviting said secret to his house, there’s also being less punctual. It’s a sea today. They’re at a beach. It’s kind of muggy, but they both like this kind of weather, and there’s a cool salty breeze. 

Sam sits on the cool sand, lets his toes touch the last edges of staggering waves. He wonders if he can fall asleep here, while he’s already asleep.

“This is pretty,” says Steve lightly, coming up from behind to sit beside him. “It’s lovely.”

He hums in agreement. “Isn’t it?”

“How was your day, Sam?” Steve asks, lying back and closing his eyes. “Did you get up to much?”

“Not really,” he replies, just a little too quickly because Steve opens his eyes again to look up at him. “Just went for a walk around on my own, and then with Mom. Baked some cookies with Naya.”

Stever relaxes a little and closes his eyes again. “Hmm, that sounds like a good day.”

“How was yours?” Sam asks, still sitting up and looking at the water going in and out, neither low or high tide. 

“It was okay. We had a meeting with someone called General Talbot, which wasn’t terrible, I guess. Just a little irritating. Trained with Natasha and then we watched some films called  _ High School Musical _ .”

“Classics,” Sam chuckles with too loud a laugh. “I’m glad Natasha’s keeping up your education while I’m gone.”

“It was mostly Clint who suggested it, but I liked it enough. The singing was a nice touch.”

“The singing is the whole thing, Steve.”

“True.”

It’s almost time to wake up — Sam can feel it, even though time in dreams seems to run differently, if it runs at all — when Sam says, because the pressure feels almost overflowing and Sam is sure that Steve can tell something’s up because this is a  _ shared  _ space, “Have you ever thought about, maybe, giving the search a rest. Let Barnes come home in his own time? Maybe he needs space?”

Steve, who up until now has been lying with his eyes closed, sits up. Sam turns to look at him because he feels he owes Steve this much, even though Steve isn’t looking at him.

“I know,” Steve says quietly. “He’s my best friend, Sam. How could I not know that?”

It feels like Sam’s been messing up a lot lately because Steve still isn’t meeting his eyes and he just sounds so… weary.

“Okay,” he says instead of saying anything else. Instead of saying the truth. “Natasha find any more leads?” 

And it’s an olive branch, and it’s close enough to lying that maybe it is one. 

Steve smiles, as though Sam has hung the moon, as though Sam understands. And he does, in a way: it’s better to keep searching fruitlessly than waiting idle. “Yeah. Lisbon. We’re leaving tomorrow.”

The  _ come with us _ is unspoken, but it’s acknowledged because, well, they’re soulmates and this is their space. 

“Stay safe,” says Sam.

* * *

Francis Wheeler, a girl from Bucky’s old neighbourhood, only a year older than Steve and himself, had two soulmates, according to rumour. Nobody ever asked her about it, of course, soulmates are a private matter, and it’s not like anybody would be spouting crap like having two soulmates across town.

She always seemed like a nice girl, Francis, though they were never friends. Sometimes she looked after Bucky’s little sisters, and Bucky thought she was pretty enough. That was about the extent of their relationship. Last he’d heard, before the War, she’d married and moved in with the fella and some other dame she worked with. It wasn’t the most conventional arrangement but not uncommon. It made sense.

She’s dead now (Bucky’s checked.)

It feels a little silly, now. Like the universe is laughing at him; not maliciously, just as though it’s saying “well, what were you expecting?” Of  _ course _ Steve and he have the same soulmate.

Sam’s note, with his number and the invitation, is folded up neatly in his pocket. There’s no mention or even implication of anything soulmate related. Just an open, vague, probably well-intentioned invite.

Bucky falls asleep reluctantly tonight. It feels as though he’s stealing something, when he does. Even though he’s never seen Sam’s dreams intentionally, even just the warmth of his mind present in the same space — Bucky’s  _ soulmate  _ — is nothing to be taken for granted. And it’s not as though Sam’s dreams are always so… melodious. He has his fair share of bad nights, like everyone else. But still, even his presence feels like someone lifting a weight off his chest. Anyway, Bucky falls asleep reluctantly tonight, though he does at least get sleep.

Sam is within reach, tonight. He’s not sure how he can tell when Sam is dreaming (or with Steve, now) just that reaching out to Sam takes more effort. Invasive, almost. But tonight, for the first time in a while, Sam is within reach and Bucky is not dreaming either. 

They’re in a field. Or, at least, a field is what Bucky sees. Long green grass, but soft enough that it mats down easily enough and the wind (can he call it wind?) ripples through it as though hair. The sky's the type of blue which is light enough and uninterrupted enough that one could almost mistake it for white except it isn’t. 

Sam is just walking aimlessly. As one does with the sorts of one picture dreams they won’t remember. He wonders why Sam hasn’t turned around yet. Wonders if he will. Or maybe Bucky needs to call out first, because maybe Sam isn’t looking for a soulmate because he thinks one is all he has.

“Sam,” he whispers, afraid, both that Sam will turn around and that he will just keep walking. 

Sam does keep walking, but he seems to be walking slower.

“Sam!” he says, louder than before, almost a yell. And Sam stops.

And then Bucky is running before he even realises it; and Sam turns around and says, quietly, a question, “Bucky?”

Bucky stops running just a few steps away, scared to close the distance because neither of them are saying anything, and Sam is probably in shock, and he desperately wants not to scare his soulmate but he can’t read what Sam is thinking, for once. 

The air seems to get just a touch warmer, as though he’s breathing in the same air over and over again. 

And then Sam cracks a weak smile. “Guess that’s why you’ve been watching us, huh?”

* * *

This is… unexpected, to be sure.

Bucky just nods, looking the way he looked when Sam visited his place the first time, a little nervous, a little flushed. It’s cute, if he’s allowed to admit that — which, apparently, he is. 

Having two soulmates is not unheard of, but it’s the type of thing that people might write scientific journals on, and go on the Ellen Show for, or feel qualified to write bibliography-self-help books for. So, the point is, it’s rare enough. Not that Sam is really thinking about these things at the moment — these thoughts are for later — right now, all Sam is really thinking about is the fact that  _ Bucky Barnes _ , the Winter Soldier, best friend of Steve Rogers — his  _ other  _ soulmate — is his soulmate. 

And he can feel Steve’s consciousness in the back of his mind right now, even though Steve is awake, different time zones and everything. Because Steve is in Lisbon. Looking for Bucky. Knowing it is probably hopeless. While Sam is on the same street as Bucky, sharing a dream with Bucky, soulmates with Bucky.

And whilst most of these things are not exactly up to Sam, it makes him feel no less guilty.

“You should stop by the house tomorrow,” he says, instead of expressing any of this to Bucky. “If you want.”

“Yes,” Bucky says quickly. “I mean, if you’ll have me.”

“Of course I will,” Sam laughs, because it seems ridiculous now that Sam hasn’t realised until now how much he wants this. 

* * *

**_“We're reborn an infinite number of times...relationships can carry over from one lifetime to the next. In each, we've had parents, siblings, partners, teachers, students. The closest word for it is pratitya-samutpada: the idea that all beings are interrelated. Often someone walks into the room and we feel like we've known them forever. And it may be that we have."_ **

**_— Karma Lekshe Tsomo, Buddhist nun and professor_ **

* * *

It feels wrong to do so, but Bucky agrees not to tell Sam’s family (a) who he is or (b) that he is Sam’s soulmate when he visits the next day. The reasoning makes sense, though. After all, Steve doesn’t know. Steve doesn’t know he’s even here. And he can tell Sam feels guilty not telling Steve, his soulmate, but a promise is a promise. And Bucky isn’t ready for Steve yet. 

Anyway, as wrong as it feels to introduce himself to the Wilsons as “just call me James” and just Sam’s “friend”, it feels even more wrong for anyone else to know before Steve does. Still, Bucky has a good day, he even has the foresight of covering his metal arm with long sleeves and gloves before he gets there. Best to look as unthreatening as possible. 

Darlene Wilson is an utter delight of a woman (though, Bucky already knew this), and after a prompting from little Naya and Sam, she agrees to make her caramel vanilla cheesecake, so long as every helps, which they all do happily. 

It’s such a goddamned wholesome sight. Sam is putting in the effort of mixing the cream cheese and vanilla and all that; Darlene Wilson is monitoring the caramel, and the rest of them, of course; and Naya and he are taking turns battering graham crackers with rolling pins for the cheesecake base. And Bucky wants to check in case this is all just him dreaming.

And every so often, Sam will meet Bucky’s gaze with a soft smile which makes him pretty sure he’s feeling the same.

At around five thirty, Sam’s sister Sarah returns home from work. She gives him a narrowed eyed look and then a nod, even though he’s just James, Sam’s friend, to her. She sits for a bit, they chat around mugs of coffee and freshly baked cheesecake, just about idle things about which Bucky makes passible attempts at pretending he knows about. 

And then Sarah says she’ll be taking her mother and daughter for Darlene’s daily walk around the neighbourhood. Probably for a bit of a gossip too. Possibly to let Sam have his guest to himself. 

Neither of them are great at speaking to each other, yet. And they haven’t even kissed or held hands or anything like that yet, of course — it would feel wrong to, before telling Steve — so it’s not like they’re gonna get up to any of that. 

(Not that Bucky hasn’t been thinking about it.)

Instead what happens is Sam puts a film on the television and says “you have to watch this”, and makes a bowl of popcorn to share and passes him a can of soda, and if they start the picture sitting awkwardly on either ends of the couch and end in the middle together, Bucky feeling Sam’s eyes on him as he watches the screen… Well, neither of them say anything.

It just makes sense, is all. It just fits.

* * *

Sam’s been acting strange recently. At first Steve thought it was just all the stress about his mother’s health. And then maybe it was guilt about missing so much work at the VA. And then maybe that, really, there wasn’t anything off at all — it’s still early days in their relationship, after all. But Sam’s been acting strange recently and there’s no denying it anymore. Distracted at the very least; he didn’t even kiss Steve yesterday night. He laughed at jokes too early or not at all, answered questions with other questions.

Not that Steve has said anything to Sam, of course (even though all the relationship advice from Yahoo Answers says that he should). 

Tonight, he’s late again.

Food in dreams is about as real as food in waking hours. As are the people, existing only in our consciousnesses. But dreams with Sam, soulmate dreams, are like waking up. As though everything behind it has just been a fuzzy haze, inconsequential. Sometimes, like other dreams, they forget that they are dreaming until someone says something which doesn’t quite fit.

Steve is waiting at a fancy French restaurant, their favourite. He doesn’t know why this is their favourite, just that it is. He’s watching the old-fashioned grandfather clock in the restaurant, watching the steady brass hand tick its way around the clock. Watching the other customers at the restaurant, chatting idly in conversations which buzz around him. Five minutes late.

Being late in dreams doesn’t mean being late in falling asleep. So long as they are sleeping at the same time, whoever wakes first or last doesn’t seem to matter at all. People, philosophers, psychologists, biologists have been trying to study it for years, but it remains unsolved. He hopes it will always be unsolved. But, Sam being late means, simply, that the universe means for Sam to be late today, in this dream. 

Steve’s not exactly sure how to decipher that. 

Sam comes into the restaurant with laughter on his lips. There’s a bright look about his eyes before he finds Steve’s face amongst all the others in the restaurant and something more neutral settles onto his face, as though Steve isn’t allowed to hear the joke.

“Something funny happen?” Steve asks when Sam finally reaches the table.

Sam shakes his head, “Nothing really,” he replies, giving him a light smile and Steve returns it almost automatically. “You order yet? I love this place.”

“I know,” Steve says, handing Sam the menu. “And no, nothing much except a bottle of wine.”

“Oh, we’re being fancy tonight, are we?” 

He shrugs. “This is a classy place.”

“Sure is.”

A waiter comes with a bottle of dark red wine and fills their glasses. A basket of bread is placed on the table and a knob of softened butter. There is music filling the place, some simple study piece played on the piano, from some corner of the room he can’t spot and suddenly it feels like Sam and he have been sitting there for an hour even though the time on the clock is no different. 

“Sam,” he says, and Sam rests his cheek on his hand and smiles across at him.

“Hm?”

“I miss you,” he says simply, and hopes Sam will understand what he means. What he means every time he says it.  _ Come back. _

“I’m right here,” Sam replies, rolling his eyes. “But yeah, okay, I miss you too. Dope.”

Or, if not come back, at the very least— 

“Can I come see you?”

“You’re seeing me now,” Sam replies, and Steve isn’t sure if this is one of those times where one of them genuinely forgets they are dreaming or if he is just deflecting.

“Sure I am,” Steve allows, swallowing before trying again. “I mean, can I come see you. In Harlem. Meet your family. See how your mother is doing. Maybe help out a little, if I can.”

Sam’s face is unreadable, even though there’s a smile still on his face it looks as though it’s held in by pins. “I…” Sam begins, leaning back from the table suddenly. “I don’t know Steve, I mean— “

“If you don’t want me to, it's fine,” Steve interrupts, a little more aggressively than intended, backtracking as quickly as he can. “I get it.”

“No— Steve, it isn’t because I don’t want you to, I’m just…” Sam runs a hand down his face. “I just don’t think it’s a good idea at the moment.”

“How’s your mom,” Steve says, and it feels like a challenge instead of a question of concern and Sam’s gaze on him sharpens and narrows.

“She’s fine, Steve,” he replies slowly. “Nothing too much to worry about.”

“Then  _ why? _ You’re not even back at your job, you don’t have the time to visit me when I’m here let alone come on my missions to find Bucky?! You  _ promised. _ ”

“I’m not having this conversation,” Sam says, standing up. “I’m sorry.”

Steve wants to cry, but this is a dream and it’s mind over matter so he doesn’t. “I miss you Sam,” he pleads. “Come on.”

“I miss you too, Steve,” Sam replies, and walks out the restaurant. 

When Steve wakes up it is four forty-five AM and he is crying and his bed is cold.

* * *

Sam doesn’t text Bucky to come by the house this morning, or to meet him by the park, or that he’s coming round to his place (which is now a small motel room, thanks to Sam and his “I’m not letting my soulmate sleep out in a parking lot, Bucky”), or even that he’s busy today but he “recommends trying out this burger joint”. So, after a couple of hours, he goes round and knocks on the door, shifting his weight from one side to the other, standing nervously.

Sarah Wilsom opens the door. “James,” she greets, smiling. “I’m not sure Sam is good for visitors today, he’s had a bad night.”

_ I know,  _ Bucky doesn’t say. Even though he does. Sam told Bucky he was going to be speaking to Steve yesterday, as he does whenever he wants to ask without asking  _ please let me tell him. _ And all Bucky knows is that it didn’t feel good to Sam.

And it’s all his fault. 

“I have something for him,” he replies instead. “Please?”

Sarah smiles at him before calling over her shoulder “James is here!” to the rest of the household. 

He follows her in, feeling a little awkward even though the Wilsons have never been anything but kind to him. He wonders what they must think of him, coming round to see Sam so often, having probably never been mentioned before. But Darlene gives him a hug in greeting and little Naya waves at him over his lunch and yells “Hi, James!” at the top of her lungs as little children are wont to do. 

Sam’s bedroom is upstairs, along the hall, to the left, and Bucky finds him in a hoodie lying face down on the bed. “Sam,” he says, knocking on the door anyway.

He rolls over. “Shit, Bucky.” croaks Sam. “I’m a mess, sorry.”

“Yeah, you are,” Bucky replies. “Don’t think that’s your fault though. I bought ice cream?”

“You’re the best.”

They watch a few episodes of some comedy show on Sam’s laptop, Bucky doesn’t really understand all of it, but he laughs when Sam laughs. They sit on the floor, resting their backs against the side of Sam's bed, two spoons and one tub of cookie dough ice-cream between them, until eventually, Sam’s head rests on Bucky’s shoulder and Bucky holds his breath and sits still for fear that Sam will move off it. 

“Thank you,” says Sam, after the third episode has ended. “You’re good.”

And Bucky fights the urge to deny that because it would make Sam sad; instead, he ventures to rest his head on Sam’s, slowly, cautiously, gently.

Just as the next episode begins, Sam pauses the screen and says, quietly, “So I haven’t told Steve about you being here.”  _ About us, _ he doesn’t say. And Sam is staring straight ahead at the wall, so Bucky follows his eyes and stares at the same blank spot.

“Thank you,” he replies, but Sam shakes his head.

“I don’t know how much longer I can keep you from him, I’ll be honest.”

Bucky holds his breath. “I’m sorry, Sam. I just—”

“I know,” and Sam sighs. “It’s not your fault, don’t apologise. You two have history and it makes sense for you to need time, I know.”

He’s still resting on Bucky’s shoulder and Bucky suddenly has to fight the urge to shrug the weight of him off, but more than that the urge to wrap his arms around him and not let go. He doesn’t, though. Leaning on shoulders is as far as they’ve ever gotten.

“Last night—” he begins, before cutting himself off. “This isn’t fair to Steve, and telling him wouldn’t be fair to you, and I love you both and I don’t know what to do, Buck.”

Steve calls him “Buck” sometimes, or at least he used to, and now they both do. But thoughts and feelings about Steve are for later, when he wants to deal with them. For now he pushes them down. 

“This doesn’t feel very fair to you either, Sam,” he replies simply.

Sam snorts. “‘Course you’d say that.”

“Course you’d say  _ that _ .”

He gets a light-hearted punch in the arm for his humour before Sam sets aside the ice-cream and pulls his duvet off the bed and covers it over the both of them and hits play. 

And Bucky thinks they both realise at the same time that Sam has just told Bucky he loves him.

* * *

There’s no other way to put it: Steve is lonely. Steve is lonely and other people are noticing. Natasha offered to go for lunch with him after training today, even Clint came by earlier to drop off a quart of ice-cream. 

Sam doesn’t seem to be noticing though. Or maybe he is. And it’s not that he doesn’t care, it’s just that he has better things to do than coddle his lonely soulmate. At least that’s what he’s been telling himself. It doesn’t make him any less lonely though.

In the morning after that disaster of a date, or a dream, Steve receives a hasty sounding text from Sam. It’s just:

_ — I’m sorry. Just things are a lot rn and i’m trying to figure some stuff out. It’s not your fault tho, dw. <3  _

It  _ feels  _ like his fault though, which is the thing. And it would be selfish to tell Sam this and give Sam one more thing to worry about. He just wishes Sam would  _ tell _ him what’s wrong, because every guess he takes seems to be another stab in the dark which pushes Sam further and further away, even though they’re still in the same city.

**— thats okay. I’m here if you need me. I understand**

He doesn’t understand. But lying is okay sometimes, at least for right now. Even though it feels wrong because they’re soulmates — shouldn’t there be nothing between them?

It’s times like this where soulmates feel silly to Steve. After all, the whole point of them is that they’re always there in the back of your head so you’re never truly alone. Somehow tht doesn’t quite feel enough, right now. 

* * *

**_"In Judaism, your bashert—a Yiddish word that roughly translates to 'bestowed'—is your destined partner. But I also like the Jewish notion of a hevruta, or learning partner. That's the person who pushes and challenges you. It's not about finding someone who completes you; it's about finding someone who gives you the opportunity to complete yourself."_ **

**_— Rabbi Sharon Brous_ **

* * *

Steve is taking his morning run alone today. It’s not too bad, really. Between missions and work in DC and just life in general now, it’s not like his having a running partner was ever really routine. 

Still, the wind feels stiller, more hollow, without someone to pass by.

It’s been almost two weeks since the dream with the fight in the fancy French restaurant, and every dream they’ve shared since then has either been an accident or just them dancing between small talk and silence. And it’s perfectly clear that both of them hate it. But it doesn’t really feel up to Steve to address it, and for whatever reason Sam seems to feel unable to.

So they’re stuck in limbo and it really just sucks because all Steve wants to do is go back to his soulmate and lazy afternoon conversations and genuinely comfortable silences, not just the silences which they both pretend are comfortable but aren’t.

It’s a Tuesday, which has always been a dreary sort of day for everyone for whatever reason. And, in the case of this morning, the weather seems to be quite literally dreary. All white and grey skies and a humid chill, but not quite foggy enough to make it atmospheric. The sky is pretty dull and the buildings of the few blocks he’s been running through seem desaturated, and it’s all enough to make him feel tired by his third or fourth lap. Not physically tired, just…tired of jogging in circles.

Not quite tired enough to stop, though, because somehow it feels as though the continuous running is what’s holding the exhaustion at bay, but tired enough that he can’t quite find the motivation to try a new route. 

He’s jogging on the spot right now, waiting for the light to turn so he can cross the road. He’s thinking maybe next time he’ll just use one of the treadmills in the Tower’s gym, since it probably wouldn’t be much difference.

“Hey,” says a voice before he feels a tap on his shoulder. He turns around, still jogging on the same spot. 

It’s just a civilian. Some kid who looks maybe thirteen or fourteen years old, holding their dog on a leash, leaning casually against a streetlight and popping gum — the very picture of the new generation. 

“Oh shit! You really are Captain America!” they say, looking excited. Their dog, some kind of westie mutt, yaps at their feet. “Sorry, you probably get that a lot, I don’t mean to be weird.”

Steve smiles; it’s nothing he’s not used to. “It’s alright, kid. You’re fine.”

The kid nods. “Hey, stop jogging for a minute, will ya? Take a picture with me — me and Benji. Benji’s this mutt over here,” he adds, nodding towards the dog. 

“Sure,” Steve nods, because who is he to deny this kid a picture of Captain America, and who is he to deny himself of this distraction from the monotony of jogging? 

“The light’s changed, let’s cross first.”

It’s a pretty wide road, takes a minute or so to walk, and usually Steve would use the time to ask “what’s your name” and “what grade are you in” and “how old is your dog?” but he’s tired. And besides, he’s Captain America so maybe he’s just advocating for road safety. 

Mostly he watches the dog walk ahead of them, considerably more chipper. 

So, they cross the road and Steve takes a selfie with the kid and his dog, and then the kid insists he pose with just him and the dog, and then Steve lets a deep sigh escape because the end of the interaction means he will inevitably have to resume jogging.

“You alright, Captain?” asks the kid, watching him with concern. “You don’t seem too bright today.”

Steve hesitates before giving the kid another small smile which he hopes doesn’t look like a grimace. “It’s nothing world ending, don’t worry about it, Kid.”

The kid kind of shrugs. “Honestly think I’m used to the world almost ending at this point, so that’s not really what I’m askin’ about.”

“Well, it’s nothing I should be putting on you, so it’s okay.”

“I get it,” replies the kid, holding up their hands. “Adult stuff, I’ll not pry, but just know that you're not as slick as you think you are.”

“Got it,” Steve says, smiling genuinely this time and raising his brows. God, kids these days really have more nerve, huh. 

“Good. Now,” continues the kid, “This feels weird to tell Captain America this, but I’m gonna tell you what my counsellor in school told me last month. Just that, whatever the hell’s going on with you, whether or not it feels in your control or not, all you can really do is be there for yourself. I don’t know. Just, like, care for yourself, or something like that. That’s your only job…I mean, that’s probably not exactly what she said but that’s the jist anyway. If you want a quick fix, watch  _ Avatar  _ or something.”

* * *

Sam's in the shower now, which is probably for the best. Water's good for resetting, Bucky finds, which is probably a little of what he needs right now. 

And Bucky needs some time to think, too. 

He's not ready to see Steve yet, he thinks. But he's also pretty sure it's selfish of him to keep Sam caught in the middle like this. When he's not even sure why he's not ready to face Steve.

Maybe he is. Maybe he never will be if he keeps waiting and maybe it doesn't matter. 

Besides, the longer he waits the less ready he'll be, he thinks.

Because Steve isn’t some wound which needs time to heal. Steve is here, and waiting for him (for them) and it feels more like waiting too long to complete the last stitch before He just knows that he misses Steve and that Steve misses him, and that he’s so, so afraid of what to say or do, or how he’s gonna feel because it’s been so, so long. 

And all this time it feels like their soulmate is stretching out between them but Steve doesn’t even know it and Bucky  _ does _ , and eventually Sam is gonna snap.

And Bucky feels done with being afraid, and of wearing out his soulmate and of making his best friend wait for some sort of sign which may never come because it’s not a sign that he needs.

Sam comes out of the bathroom dressed in loose linen with water falling from his hair in droplets onto his dark skin, and he looks so beautiful and so, so tired. 

“You should tell Steve,” he says. “I mean it. You have to.”

* * *

Sam is the one who knocks today, which is surprising because Steve has been trying to give him space. 

It’s night time, both in real life — he assumes — and in the dream. Steve is just lying on his bed in his room. Not his room now, but back then. Back when he was living with his Ma in their two rooms — cramped, but enough for them — and sometimes, most days, Bucky would come and stay the night, even though he lived in the same block, just the floor above.

“Hey,” says Sam, and Steve watches as he takes in the room feeling more vulnerable now than the cold which always seems to be sinking into his bones.

“Hey,” says Steve, softly. “What’s up.”

Sam looks nervous, stiff almost, which is weird because he usually makes an effort to get comfortable with the places. And it’s not as though he looks out of place, per se, but Steve can tell he has one foot out the door, is all.

“I have to tell you something,” Sam replies. “It’s not bad, really, but I just need to say I’m so sorry, Steve, first. So, I’m sorry.”

Steve’s never been broken up with before — the closest he’s ever had is going down in the Valkyrie and promising that dance with Peggy that they both knew would never happen — but he thinks they might sound a little like this. He closes his eyes because if nothing else, only hearing it seems better than hearing and seeing. 

“Go on,” he says, whispering. But sounds aren’t loud or quiet in dreams, they’re all the same and so Sam hears him anyway.

“I’m… I’m at home, right now. And Bucky is here.” Sam takes a pause to breathe and Steve doesn’t open his eyes yet because he knows Sam and he knows there’s more. “He’s been here for a few weeks now, and I didn’t tell you because he asked me not to but now he says I can, and... he’s my soulmate. My other soulmate.”

Steve keeps closing his eyes, even though he knows Sam is done talking now, and says nothing.

What is he supposed to say?  _ Okay? Okay you lied to me and you’re supposed to be  _ my  _ soulmate and you lied to me about something so important to the both of us — okay?!  _

Steve can’t decide whether he likes being angry. Sometimes it’s better to be angry than sad. Sadness takes energy and gives none back, and anger is like charging batteries with air. But Steve is tired of being angry and sad and lonely and he’s tired of waiting and looking for the two people he loves the most in the world. But there aren’t a lot of options.

Anger is easier, though, because it’s like finally inhaling after holding your breath for so long, even though what you’re breathing in is water. 

“Steve?”

“Get out, Sam,” says Steve.

* * *

**_“how is it that_ **

**_he's always_ **

**_in my thoughts._ **

**_even when_ **

**_i am not_ **

**_thinking.”_ **

**_― Sanober Khan, A Thousand Flamingo_ **

* * *

Sam waits an hour before he gives in and sends about fifteen texts to Steve. He doesn’t even leave them on read. Sam waits five hours before he gives in and texts Bucky that he’s outside his motel room, and Bucky opens the door immediately and Sam lets himself fall into him.

“I told him,” he says, voice muffled into his neck. It’s almost 5AM.

“What did he say?” Bucky whispers.

And Sam shrugs. “Not much. He just told me to leave.”

* * *

They order food from a Vietnamese place not far from the motel for breakfast. It’s one of Sam’s favourites, Bucky knows, because their menu is always on top of the pile of coupons and takeaway vouchers by the door.

Bucky’s motel is small but clean, and there’s a small box TV in the corner of the room which Bucky uses to fill the silence because neither of them has the energy for conversation or quietness. 

Sam is sitting on one of the two mismatching worn leather tufted chairs, a mug of instant coffee steaming slowly in his hands.

“It’ll be fine,” he’d said. “He just needs some time.”

“Yeah, time. ‘Course.” Sam had replied.

And they had gotten into bed, the first time they’ve been in the same bed, and neither of them had slept, just lay there in the dark.

“I’m cold,” said Sam.

And Bucky had tugged more of the blanket over to the other side and said “I’m sorry”, because it felt like (still feels like) his fault. 

Sam doesn’t think he’s ever heard Steve’s voice so cold. At least not directed at him. 

_ Get out, Sam.  _

It’s Wednesday today, he thinks. Though he’s not too sure. He hasn’t slept — almost feels in days, afraid of sleeping in case he heard Steve’s voice cold like that again. 

His family are worried. Bucky is worried. His colleagues back at the VA are worried. He even gets a few texts from Nat. 

Nothing from Steve, though. 

Probably for the best. 

“I think i should go back to DC,” he said yesterday. “You know, get back to work. See if I still even have a job.”

“Sam, baby,” began his Mom, “You aren’t in the right state to be going back. What’s going on with you, Sammy?”

“Nothing, Momma. Don’t worry about it. Just a lotta things going on.”

And his Mom patted his cheek, with the softness which meant she didn’t believe him. “All right, Sammy,” she said, anyway.

* * *

Sam and Bucky spend a lot of time renting and watching films, catch-up work like with Steve, listening to audio-books (unlike Steve, who’s never had that sort of patience), listening quietly to Sam’s favourite songs, playing board games (neither of them are quite as good as Steve, it seems, but it just means they’re evenly matched most of the time), babysitting Sam’s niece. 

From Sam’s perspective, it feels unfair to Steve. He and Bucky have all this time and space to just exist without having to search or fight or run. And he misses Steve. Genuinely. He’s never lied about that.

From Bucky’s perspective, he doesn’t understand it. He doesn’t understand why Steve is staying silent for so long. Granted, he sees the irony of him thinking this, but still. Sam is hurting. And Steve is too. And Bucky feels like now it’s his turn to wait, which he thinks seems justified enough. But they could all hurt less if they were just together.

That’s how they’ve always worked, it seems. At least, Bucky thinks that’s how they’re supposed to.

From Sam’s perspective, it feels unfair to Bucky, because here he is, essentially bleeding out silently, and Bucky is the one who is left to apply pressure on the wound. From Sam’s perspective he’s fucked up, but he doesn’t know what he could have done different to make him not fuck up. And now both of them have to wait.

From Steve’s perspective, he feels relieved, he feels selfish, he feels angry, he feels guilty, he feels humiliated, he feels alone. And he knows how he can feel less alone. He knows what he needs to do.

* * *

But somehow, he’s not sure if he should anymore. None of them are.

Sam is dreaming, but he’s with Bucky. He isn't sure where they are, just that they're high above. Some kind of glass room suspended in the clouds. And even though there are no windows, somehow he can still feel the breeze.

They're making out shapes in the clouds, and Sam feels a little childish because of it but in the good way. 

"I miss Steve," he sighs suddenly. 

"Me too," says Bucky. “At least, I think I do.”

Bucky is quiet today, which isn’t strange in and of itself — he isn’t exactly a loud guy — but usually he’s loud or quiet for Sam’s sake. Today, though, Sam suspects he needs some space for his own thoughts. So Sam sits quiet with him, trying to be a more steady presence , and waits.

“I remembered something today,” Bucky begins, finally, and Sam gives his hand a small squeeze. “Nothing much. Just today, when your mom was making her coffee, I just remembered those feeble things we called sandwiches we ate, Steve and me, that we bought at that coffee stand all the time. I could just taste it on my tongue, and it was like I could hear his laughter and the smell of cheap coffee and, I don’t know, some stupid joke I can almost remember.”

“You love him,” Sam says suddenly, before he can stop himself. Before he even really realises it. But it’s true, it’s true, it’s true.

But Bucky doesn't nod like he expects. He shrugs. “Maybe. Probably. What the hell do I know?”

“More than you think,” Sam replies softly.

_ You love him,  _ Sam thinks,  _ of course you do.  _ But he can’t answer for Bucky, no matter how much he can feel Bucky wanting him to. 

“Didn’t you two ever…” he trails off — pushing, perhaps, for the answer.

Bucky shakes his head. “I don’t think so. I think we wanted to, though.”

“Times were tough,” Sam nods quietly.

“Fuck, Sam, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—”

“Don’t be,” Sam interrupts, and then asks, “D’you think you still…” and realises as he’s asking how much he hopes the answer is yes.

“I don’t know. It’s been too long. I can’t—” 

“It’s okay, Buck,” he says and leans into him and shakes his head to tell him he doesn’t have to answer because he’s right, it’s too soon to be asking these questions.

“Besides,” Bucky continues. “Does it really matter?”

It does matter, but Sam doesn’t say anything because it doesn’t feel like the right time for an answer.

“I wish you two had gotten more time,” he says instead.

And Bucky just shrugs again, and smiles at him. “Me too, Sam. But I’m glad I’m here.”

* * *

Bucky doesn’t mean to eavesdrop, but it’s hard to walk into the room while other conversations are having, so there’s not much he can do other than hang awkwardly in the hall. After all, unlike Steve, it really is not his fault he can hear so much more than most.

“ — Sammy, why’re you just telling your mother this now?”

“Things are complicated, Momma,” Sam replies. “James and Steve, they have history — the kind that hurts even though it ain’t either of their faults. And I just didn’t want them hurting. Turns out I just made it worse, Momma.”

_ You didn’t make anything worse, _ Bucky thinks almost furiously.  _ You’re home _ .

“Don’t say that, Sammy. You just got a big heart, sometimes it’s just hard to decide what to do with it, but you always do me proud.” 

“Okay, Momma,” and he hears shuffling and maybe they’re in there hugging because he thinks Sam needs someone to help hold him — they all do, but Sam seems to take it on himself most of the time to be the one doing the holding. 

“Are you okay, baby?” whispers Darlene, voice muffled now.

There’s a short pause, but Sam replies, “Yeah, Mom. I’m okay.”

* * *

**_“...But I want to feel the exchange_ **

**_the warm hand on the shoulder, song coming out_ **

**_and the ear holding on to it. Maybe we could meet_ **

**_at that table under the tree, just right out there._ **

**_I’m passing the idea to you in this note:_ **

**_the table, the tree, the pure heat of late July._ **

**_We could be in that same safe place watching…”_ **

**_— Ada Limón, Bright Dead Things_ **

* * *

_ [a dial tone sounds twice] _

_ “Hello, who is this?” _

_ [a pause. an intake of breath.] _

_ “Steve, it’s me.” _

_ [there’s a pause. the voice sounds hesitant, almost afraid.] “Bucky?” _

_ “Hey, Steve.” _

_ [a longer pause this time. the sounds of ruffling sheets.] _

_ “You’re calling me...why? Is something wrong!?” _

_ “Just come over, Steve. Sam only kept me from you cos I made him promise.” _

_ “He’s my soulmate, Bucky — why does that matter… he doesn’t even want me around.” _

_ “Yes he does!” [a throat clears] “You don’t get to decide what Sam wants. And besides, he’s my soulmate too. He’s our soulmate, and I’m here and he misses you.” _

_ [heavy breathing from both sides of the line.] _

_ “And what about you?” _

_ “Steve—” _

_ “And what about you, Bucky? You knew I was looking for you, and you couldn’t even leave a note.” _

_ “I wasn’t ready, Steve. I’m sorry…” _

_ “Well what about now?” _

_ “Does it matter?” _

_ “Of course it matters, Bucky! You’re my best friend, and I love you. Of course it matters. Buck—” _

_ “Fine! Fine, I don’t know, Steve. Everything is just fucked. But I miss you, okay? I miss you so fucking much.” _

_ [the line lets out a crackle, once, twice.] _

_ “Steve?” _

_ “How is Sam? Is he… is he okay?” _

_ “He’s okay now. He’s just… not been sleeping so much.” _

_ “Oh.” _

_ “How about you?” _

_ “I’m okay. You can tell Sam that. Nat’s been keeping me busy training and watching films.” _

_ “That’s good.” _

_ [a final pause] _

_ “Steve, don’t stay away for much longer. Please.” _

_ “Okay.” _

_ [line cuts. call disconnected.] _

* * *

Steve has never been musically inclined. Or even rhythmically inclined, for that matter, if those old tapes of his USO shows are anything to go by. But these past few weeks he’s been trying to learn piano, or, well, the keyboard. It’s slow going, but to be fair, he has other priorities, and he’s just been using ten minute Youtube tutorials. It’s amazing all the information you can access these days. 

He doesn’t really talk about it, cos it’s not really something he’s good at (yet, hopefully), and he isn’t even really sure why he is doing it except that it’s nice to have something else. Something which isn’t part of Captain America, or in pages of his old sketchbooks at all the  _ Steve Rogers and the Howling Commandos  _ exhibits. It’s kind of like a quiet time for himself. He can mess up. Music is temporary, which is the nature of sound, even his crumpled up doodles don’t have that.

He supposes he is kind of in a strange position. He  _ knows  _ he is going to be remembered, it’s something which almost everybody wants, it’s something he used to want but now doesn’t because he already has it. Who knows if some hasty reminder on a post-it note he makes just for himself will be analysed and seen by an audience one day? 

But music? Every time he winces because he plays a C instead of a D, and the triumph he gets from finally playing something through muscle memory — it’s still creating things, making art, but it’s just for him. It’s only temporary.

Anyway, right now he’s trying to learn the right hand part of  _ Too-Ra-Loo-Ra-Loo-Ral _ cos he caught himself humming it yesterday. His Ma used to sing it to him all the time. It’s sort of nostalgic. 

_ Music is good for the soul, _ his Ma used to say.  _ I’ve seen patients unable to move a muscle but get the energy to laugh from a good tune _ .

It’s kind of like, after Sam had given him all those records and albums to listen to, after they’d figured they were soulmates, Sam had asked if Steve could give him a list to listen to of his favourite songs from back then. And the day after, Steve had caught him singing in the kitchen to a song which he’d known all the words to and understood all the references to. It was just really, really nice. 

“I could help you look into getting a teacher,” Sam had offered, when he’d seen that Steve was trying to learn”

But Steve had shaken his head, and was trying to explain in not too many words that he wanted to do this on his own, for himself, but Sam had nodded and kissed his cheek like he understood, just like that.

* * *

“What’s up?” asks Natasha, setting a steaming mug of some sort of herbal tea in front of him. 

“Thanks,” he says before biting his lip. “Bucky’s been staying at Sam’s place. For a while now.”

Nat nods, humming and taking a sip from her own mug. “I see.”

“You don’t seem surprised.”

She shrugs. “Don’t I?”

“No,” he says, eyes narrowed. “You don’t. Did you know?”

Nat sets her mug down on the table in front of her and raises her hands, eyes tired if nothing else. “Don’t accuse me of things, Steve. I’m just hearing about this from you. It just...makes sense.”

“What does?”

“Sam’s your soulmate. People have speculated if you and Barnes were soulmates for years, myself included. Makes sense that you would share soulmates if you weren’t already each other’s soulmates.”

“I didn’t even tell you about that part yet,” he says warily.

“Didn’t have to. Not exactly hard to figure out why someone like Sam would lie to his soulmate, if it wasn’t for another.”

“I never pegged you for a romantic, Nat.”

“I don’t think it’s romanticism,” she replies simply. “I’m just good at noticing things.”

“You think I should go see them, don’t you? They want me now, suddenly.”

“I don’t think they ever didn’t want you, Steve. Sam was waiting for Bucky, and I think Bucky was just waiting for it to hurt less.”

* * *

It makes sense that Sam and Bucky are soulmates also. Truth be told, there was never a plan or even much of a picture of what he would do when he found Bucky. After all, everything happened so quickly, he’d met Sam and then dragged him into his sudden life as a fugitive and then Bucky was alive and then Sam and he were soulmates. All in a weekend, it seemed like. 

And he’d just been putting off thinking about it because, well — Sam is his soulmate, everything fits when he’s with Sam, everything just feels right, and Bucky? He loves Bucky so much, has always loved Bucky so much.

He loves them both so much, which is a little scary to think.

And why would he love them both so much if they didn’t also love each other too, at least a little bit?

It’s overwhelming (and maybe he can sort of understand a little why Bucky wasn’t ready, and why Sam didn’t say anything because it’s a  _ lot _ .)

(It’s not too much, but a lot all at once, enough that he has to take a step back and breathe.)

Because he kind of gets two soulmates, the two people he loves most, they all kind of do: Sam literally, and Bucky and he in the sense where the universe has a way of fitting the bonds and the ties you make yourself with it’s own will.

* * *

**[03:42] I love you. Can I come over?**

_ [03:55] Steve? _

_ [03:55] Are you okay? _

**[03:56] Yes.**

**[03:56] I miss you. And I love you both. Can I come over?**

**[03:57] I know it’s almost 4, but I can come later in the day?**

_ [03:58] I don’t mind. We can meet at the motel Bucky’s staying at. _

_ [03:59] And I love you too Steve. I’m sorry. _

**[04:00] It’s okay. I just miss you.**

_ [04:01] I miss you too. I can’t sleep. _

**[04:01] Me too.**

* * *

When they meet outside the motel, 9AM, it’s pretty clear that none of them have had a particularly restful night. Steve brings a bag of bagels — courtesy of Natasha — and they go get coffee from a nearby McDonald’s. Bucky says he’s never been to McDonald’s before which surprises Steve, and Sam says “I didn’t think it was something you’d want to have missed,” and they get several boxes of chicken nuggets because two of them are super soldiers. 

They talk. They sit. They eat, and laugh, and make fun of songs on the radio. And it isn’t that weird, Steve seeing Bucky after all this time — they hug for a long time, of course, and Steve kind of feels like crying but mostly he feels like smiling — and it isn’t that weird that Sam is Steve’s soulmate, and he’s also Bucky’s soulmate. 

And at two they get back to Bucky’s motel room and collapse on that tiny bed together and just nap until six because all three of them are sleep deprived. None of them dream this time — too tired, maybe — but it doesn’t matter. They’re still together, which is what counts.

* * *

**_“May you always think of me, and remember me when love is where you want to come home”_ **

**_― Nicola An, The Universe at Heartbeat_ **

* * *

_ “...As I lean into the morning light, it's like my body's in some other town, and then you walk on by…” _

“What is this song?” asks Bucky. “I like it.”

They’re in the Wilsons’ front yard, it’s around eight in the evening, and the sky is a clash of pale blues and oranges because it’s early June, and they’re just laying on a blanket on the lawn. Steve’s trying to play the guitar, even though he’s not much of a singer.

“It’s one of Sam’s songs,” Steve replies. “You always like Sam’s songs.”

“That’s because my songs are always good,” Sam says matter-of-factly.

“Of course they are, sweetheart,” says Bucky, rolling over to rest his head on Sam’s stomach even though the weather is too hot for cuddling, feeling content. “The question is,” he continues, “are they good because Sam likes them, or does Sam simply have good taste?”

“I’d like to think it’s the latter,” Steve laughs. “It could always be both, though.”

“True, true.”

Sam sighs a little, but he can’t keep the smile from his face when he says. “Y’all are such nerds.”

“You love us,” replies Bucky simply, and none of them can deny it.

There's the scent of oranges from the tree in their backyard, bountiful every spring and summer. There's the sweet smell of the chocolate chip cookies they baked with little Naya today drifting out from the kitchen window.

It isn’t the house or the garden or the sky which makes it  _ home _ , though. It just is, somehow.

* * *

**_"If soulmates do exist, they're not found. They're made.”_ **

**_— The Good Place (2019)_ **


End file.
